


Chopped Salad and Devilled Eggs

by wrexie



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: ... That's it that's the most cursed tag I can add, April Fools Fic but the joke is that this is serious and not a joke, Drama, Family Drama, Frasier AU, Gen, honestly it's just like... such a bummer for being a fic based off FRASIER
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2019-12-30 17:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18319757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrexie/pseuds/wrexie
Summary: This is KERO 900 Seattle Talk Radio, a radio station that still somehow exists in the year 201X, where Dr. Edward Elric accepts callers every weekday and sometimes even tries to answer their questions. But the Dr. Edward Elric on the radio isn't the Edward Elric that his friends and family know; a hot-headed, jaded mess that often tries to wear his mouth as a shoe and hates his father. Vocally. Very vocally.Unfortunately, when... conditions arise, Edward Elric is convinced, cajoled, prodded, poked, harassed, nay, nigh-near-evenforcedto accept his father (critically-acclaimed and New York Times best-selling self-help author Van Hohenheim) into his home, which can really only mean good things are in store for him ahead.As long as nobody dies.(Frasier AU)(No, really, it's a Frasier AU)(Knowledge of the Frasier canon not needed, required, or wanted. We're taking a premise and RUNNING.)





	1. Inferno

“The problem is my brother—he just doesn't seem to get it. I'm busy, working two jobs just to get by, but he seems to think the answer to all my problems is to put more on my plate! Get a cat  _ this _ , start a little league  _ that _ . There's no more room in my life for bullcrap, but every spare weekend I get where I think I might finally be able to relax? He shows up on my stoop like, hey Marge! Wanna go on a hike? And next thing you know I'm halfway up a mountain dehydrated, cranky, and ten bucks out on trail mix, but he thinks he's gone and done me a favor!”

It’s Friday. 6:53 pm. Partly cloudy. His coffee is cold, the weather is cold, hell, just about everything about today has been as frigid and slow moving as a rabbit in a snow-storm.

Ed drags a hand down his face and pulls the mic closer to him. “Marge, let me get this straight. Your brother, having decided on his own what is best for you, is pushing those decisions on you, without any concern for whether they actually fit into your life or not?”

The phone crackles with a sigh of relief. “Yes!”

“And it’s making you feel like you have no control over your own life? Like your sole purpose is to cater to his whims?”

“Yes, ohhh yes yes yes! Exactly like that!”

“And, Marge. One last question. What… exactly… does this have to do with today’s topic of the true costs of recycling or, you know,  _ science in general? _ ”

“Well, I was hoping that you’d tell me how to get him to stop.”

He turns his head to gape incredulously at Rose through the pane separating the booth from the producer’s studio. Like, seriously? This is what she’s putting him through? But she doesn’t respond with more than a shrug before she holds up her wrist and taps it urgently. Running out of time already? Well, it’s no wonder when you schedule a windbag for a call-in. He’ll have to talk to her after.

“Listen, Marge. Thank you so much for calling in—” His teeth are gritted as he says it, damn these radio niceties— “But we’re almost out of time here and this? Is really not my area of expertise. Our network has a call-in psychiatric program on during the day that you may be more interested in, but as someone with a brother, I’ve often found that firmly saying ‘no’ gets me out of things that I don’t want to do.”

There’s a soft “But—” that Rose cuts off with the switchboard, and he’s in the clear.

“That’s it for the show today! It’s been a great time here on Truth Talk, I’ll see you all again on Monday, but be sure to check out our weekend programming! We have a,” he glances down at the powder-pink flier that was left in the booth, “radio special with Diane and Levi at two tomorrow, where they’ll be talking about the cupcake bakery storm that has overtaken Seattle, with special guest Laura Miller from Alki’s very own Miller Cup-Bakery. It’s sure to be a real _ treat. _ Once again this is Dr. Edward Elric and Rose, KERO 900 Seattle talk radio, turning the time over to the hourly news and weather report.”

He's through Rose’s door before she even has time to take off her headphones.

“Ed, hold on—”

“What was that? Like, actually. Honestly. I would really, really like an explanation for why I just had to end my science news and talk radio show by placating a woman with no spine instead of answering someone’s honest questions about how the world around them works. Please. Tell me.”

Rose sucks in a breath through her teeth and looks off to the side. Classic Rose maneuvers for when she knows the answer, but also knows you won't like it. She's empathetic that way. A little bit naive, but good people, and a well-connected radio producer. Just… cares too much about what other people think. People like him, whose tempers sometimes get away from them and then trample all over the poor things egos.

“She was really, really insistent, Ed.”

“Most people who think they're right are,” he responds dryly.

She wrings her hands and starts to gather up her papers, busying herself as she deliberates over the best way to deliver her explanation. He, on the other hand, doesn't really give a shit what the explanation is as long as he gets it, and soon. Work wasn't just the one hour that he was gracing the people of Seattle’s earholes, after all.

“Your ratings have been slipping,” she says, and he bristles. “I did some digging… And people think it's funny when they get your show mixed up, and you get angry. So… I thought I would set the stage a little bit here and there. Start letting people slip in. Kind of like a fun, running joke. He's a doctor, but not that kind!” She does this little pose at the end of it that would actually be kind of cute if his head wasn’t swimming.

He moves further into the producer’s booth, shutting the door behind him. “Rose, how much have the ratings slipped?”

“Um, it’s not that bad, really! I mean, talk radio has been on a downward slide for years now, this is nothing unexpected, and I’m sure if we stay positive and put those thoughts into the world, we’ll make it through this. One-hundred-percent. It’s probably just a seasonal…” she blathers on and on, and it’s everything Ed can do to stay focused on rolling the bead of his bracelet between his fingers.

“Rose. I don’t do thoughts and prayers. What are the numbers?”

“Look, the numbers won’t matter if we just—”

“Rose.” he repeats, insistent.

“... Fourteen-point-eight percent, if you count this week.”

The words hit him like ballast. “Fourteen-point…? And you didn’t think this was important for me to know?”

“Edward, that’s not what I--”

“No, right, sure. You’re an omniscient radio producer and you know best, so why bother telling me— or, hell! Why bother asking for my permission to pull stunts like staging bad callers? I’m just a puppet on strings for you to jerk around, right!?”

“Ed—” Rose attempts, looking over his shoulder and gripping her folders so hard it whitens her knuckles. He doesn’t care, though.

“But I guess it doesn’t fucking matter anyway, because— goddamn— fourteen-point-eight?! I’ll be lucky if I still have this job on Monday! What were you thinking!?”

“I was thinking that maybe I’d like to have a job too, Ed!” She spits back, finally moving to get in his face about it. “You’re not the only one this affects, numbskull! When you do poorly, I do poorly! So excuse me for doing the best I can with a handful of crap—”

“Hey, you guys done?”

Rose and Ed turn toward the door, where the switchboard jockey for the next segment leans dully against the doorframe, black hair stuffed under a ratty Mariners cap and chewing bubblegum. Her eyes skirt them up and down. The bubble she was blowing pops.

“Not that I’m not like, suuuper into you two working out whatever it is you’ve got going here. It’s just that I would  _ also _ prefer to have a job? And I can’t, like…  _ do _ that until you guys move.”

Ed has the bead between his fingers again, spinning, spinning. 

Rose collects herself quickly, of course. All professionalism and poise the moment she needs to be someone other than herself. “Sorry, Lan Fan. We were just leaving.”

 

* * *

 

He’s so pissed. Who does Rose think she is? They have a partnership. She promised. Day one, he said wasn't going to be anyone’s dog or puppet or mouthpiece. Sure, he would advertise the other programs, just as they advertise for him. Equivalent exchange, as it were. Maybe some ads for products he really believes in, here or there. He isn't so completely anti-establishment he can't recognize he lives in a capitalist society. That's the whole game. Rose agreed, said she'd do as much as she could. And today, she proved how much she really could.

He just expected a little more integrity. A little more transparency. The name of the whole damn segment is  _ Truth Talk _ , after all. And he can't in good nature say he's doing that if someone is rigging the game behind his back.

The cold wind off the Sound whips his hair around his cheeks as he exits the radio station and starts making his way to the parking lot two blocks away. It's past eight, now. Usually he'd stay till ten, soaking up the productivity his night owl nature afforded him by chewing through science journals and studies to prep for the next show. But knowing you might not have a show come next week… It's a little disheartening.

He knows he's being a little dramatic, okay? Of course there's more steps to this than just showing up without a job on Monday. First it starts with a time slot move, and then another. Suddenly your audience doesn't know where or when to find you. Then there are apologies, explanations, and behind closed doors, admonishments. ‘We give you the privilege of making us money!’ they’ll say. ‘How dare you not jump through every hoop we place, each one higher than the other?’ And then you're working three times as hard for half as much, before you disappear altogether.

The sad thing about it is that he didn't even like this job when he first started. He figured it was something to fill the time before he finally got hired to do something, anything great. But then the letters came in. Validation that he wasn't just rambling on-air, he was convincing people. Changing their minds. Helping kids who didn't understand their teachers, teaching parents who didn't believe their kids. The attention and power a microphone afforded you was downright addicting, and its absence in his life had become unfathomable.

He unlocks his phone, and hisses at the alerts.

Three missed calls from Al, two texts. One missed call from Luke, no texts. He meant to check earlier, but Rose had him so heated and… Dammit.

It's not midnight yet on the East Coast, he rationalizes, as he ignores Al’s texts and dials Luke instead.

One ring.

Two ring.

Three ring.

He almost gives up, because duh, of course he’d already be asleep, or with his friends, or doing something wild and crazy, it's Friday night after all—

“Dad?” A small, crackly voice asks, and Ed can literally feel his heart light up like a goddamn Christmas tree.

“Hey bud! I saw you called, and I just wanted to check in since you don't usually call me outside our weekly chat?” he patters, trying to rein in his excitement.

“Uh… Yeah. I was trying to call Damien earlier. Sorry… I didn't think it had enough time to go through.”

Great job, Edward Elric. Make your kid feel like he did something wrong by calling you. “No! I mean, it's cool! It's okay! I was just in the middle of work, so I missed it! You know you can call me anytime, right?”

“Yeah, Dad… I know.”

Another heavy beat of non-conversation passes by.

“So… is Damien a friend, oorrr...?”

“Ugh,  _ Dad _ .”

“Hey! I’m a parent! I have a right to ask totally annoying and invasive questions!” he jokes, but Luke is quiet. Or maybe talking to someone else in the room? It’s hard to tell over the wind.

“... He’s a friend,” he finally answers, and the phone crackles with a sigh. “I’m tired.”

Ed threads his fingers in and out and around the keyrings in his pocket. “Right. I should let you go back to sleep. Be good for your mom, okay?”

“I will.”

“Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Sure. Night.”

“Sweet dreams, kiddo.”

His son hangs up first, and he’s left with the craven hole in his chest that can only come from having an interaction go way more south than you anticipated. Rationally speaking, there are so many other factors to why he’d be so short with him, desperate to end the call. It’s late, he probably had a friend over, he might be stressed about school, the call was unanticipated… But emotionally, irrationally, just a teensy,  _ tiny _ bit, he wonders what he could have done to make it better, or if they aren’t as close as he thought, or if he really is too far away to be an effective father, or...

He reaches the parking lot, nothing but a gravel ditch with a ticket machine perched on the side, and wrestles his keys into his beat-up old camry. He just needs to get out of this wind. Then he can think clearly.

The moment the car door shuts the air goes still around him, but his thoughts only seem to get louder. Rose betrayed you, your son hates you, there’s nothing to blame but yourself, you’re trapped, trapped, trapped...

He grips the bridge of his nose and starts the car. Maybe gritty guitars and hoarse vocalists on the radio can drown out his shitty-thought monologue on the way home.

Home, in his case, is his two-bedroom share of a triplex in some part of Seattle he tells other people is Ballard.

Some part of him feels like this Ballard is a shell, with a historic look but none of the vibrance he remembers. One part of it might be that he’s old now. The other might be that Seattle’s increasingly lucrative real estate market invited gentrification, drove up rent, and outpriced most of the locals that ever gave it that vibrance in the first place. It’s hard to see any of the influence of Norwegian immigrants when the closest any of these people have ever been to the culture is a mjolnir tattoo on their bicep.

He tries not to dwell on it too much outside of drunken rants. The problem is systemic, and all dwelling does is convince him he’s been complacent about the problem by renting a piece of triplex he can barely afford on a modest salary.

_"... After this commercial break, we have an interview with New York Times best-selling author, psychologist, and renowned philosopher, Dr. Va—"_

He turns the radio off (it wasn't really helping to distract him anyway)  and turns the corner to his street.

The triplex itself isn’t much to look at. The tree out front is neither overgrown nor trimmed, what little patch of land it has that manages to be called a garden is well-kept but certainly not manicured, and the paint is starting to get that Seattle creep on it, making the house look way shabbier than it really is.

And what it is is pretty good, actually. Not too far from work, within walking distance of a good Creole food joint, and Russell, the guy he shares walls with, is mostly the quiet and studious type. Mostly being the key word. He’s out smoking on the front balcony when Ed pulls up, and they exchange a courteous nod as he starts climbing the steps.

Russell’s triplex is in the middle, and it’s clear from seeing it that most of the garden work around the place must be his doing. His piece of the balcony is cluttered from ceiling to stoop with every kind of basket and pot of plant imaginable. White daisies poking out of winter’s brown straws, early purple crocuses, evergreen ivies that cascade from their baskets and spin themselves around the guardrails in a dark green curtain… And those are just the ones Ed can remember by name. Even his ashtray is shaped like a lotus or something.

There’s a part of Ed that admires how frankly remarkable it is that he can keep track of so many things and keep them healthy, and another part that would be horrified if it found out there was somehow more inside. How does he make it through allergy season?

“Don’t  _ you _ look glad to be alive,” Russell drawls smoothly as Ed walks past, blowing sour, skunky smoke out the side of his mouth, then pursing his lips for another drag. One deep blue eye scours him, the other hidden behind a swoop of wheat-straw hair.

He grimaces and veers wide on his way past. It’s not like Russell isn’t allowed to smoke on the balcony, but a contact high is the last thing he needs right now. He’s already anxious. “Tough day at work,” he explains, fishing in his pocket for his keys, which he just  _ had _ , but has somehow lost in the 45 seconds it takes to get here from his car.

Russell hums thoughtfully, holding the smoke in his mouth for a moment. “Interesting. Here I thought you'd been the most entertaining today than you have been in awhile. People have been saying you've been losing your  _edge,_ and I was about to agree with them."

The world pauses itself around him. "Not everyone agrees with them. I need to appeal to a wide audience."

"You're the professional," Russell deflects. "I don't need to make your night worse, Ed. It's about to do that on its own."

Ed turns to stare indignantly at Russell, because who the fuck in their right mind says something cryptic like that to their neighbors, but the bastard won’t turn to face him. Too lost in staring up at the sky, like he’ll see anything past the cloud cover or light pollution. He gives it up, finally finding that metallic knot he calls a key ring, and looking up to also find a page protector taped to his door, a white sheet of paper folded inside.

It doesn’t register as immediately important to him. He plucks it off the door and wiggles the key in the lock until it turns, with more pressing concerns like the scratching at the door.

He is assaulted by a writhing mass of black fur the moment his foot is through the door, blocking his way and demanding  _ ear scratches, ear scratches, oh god please ear scratches!  _ as toll. The world’s most wonderful toll.

Whatever had been haunting him leaves itself at the door, because he just can’t not grin at the world’s wiggliest dog weaving herself between his knees and smacking her rudder-like tail against the wall, making it difficult to get much farther into the apartment. Her tongue finds its way on all his fingers as he tries to pet her into submission, but all that does is switch the problem from her being everywhere to leaning on his prosthetic at an awkward angle.

“Okay, okay girl— come on— Moony! Off!”

She backs off, careening herself toward the couch to thrash a stuffed raccoon instead, which is fine by him, because it’s not right under his feet. He dumps his keys in the dish by the door and shrugs off his jacket, throwing it on the table as he idly wanders into the kitchen, unfolding the sheet of paper with one hand and grabbing at the stuffed raccoon toy with the other as Moony pushes it into his palm. She’s such a good dog. He loves her so much.

He takes a moment to vaguely play tug with her while he reads the page.

… And then another moment when he’s sure he read it wrong.

… And then he tosses the raccoon down the hall, getting Moony out of his space so he can angrily storm right back out the door.

Russell doesn’t move an inch to get out of his way, and he swears he can hear a soft “There it is,” as he stomps past and down the balcony.

He stops at the third door of the triplex and raps the door with a balled up fist, loud and clipped. “Hey!! Get out here, you old hag!!” he shouts, peering through the doorside window, then slamming his fist against the door again. “I can see your lights are on! I’ve got something to settle here, and I’m not leaving until I get to talk to you, Dante! I’ll keep you up all night you sanctimonious piece of shit, I’ll goddamn do it, I’ve got nothing else going on tonight, and—!!”

The door swings open to reveal a woman in at least her seventies, gray hair pulled back in a bun and a scowl like vinegar. “Pipe down, Elric. I get enough noise complaints about you. What could you possibly want this late at night?”

He shoves the piece of paper in her face, forcing her to step back a little. “What the fuck,” he growls, “is this?”

She takes a moment to glance at the paper, then back at him. “I believe it is the notice I taped to your door earlier this afternoon, though a bit more crumpled,” she responds cooly, her demeanor infuriatingly unshakeable, while he stands in front of her absolutely trembling with rage.

“This is  _ illegal.  _ You can’t raise my rent like this.”

“I certainly can’t. This? This was a  _ courtesy,  _ intended to keep you from knocking down my door in the middle of the night. The actual notice should be coming through the post sometime tomorrow. Pesky red tape, and all that.”

His jaw drops. “Still, you can’t raise my rent by—!!”

She holds up a hand. “I think you’ll find that not only am I able to, but that it is  _ well _ within my rights as your landlord to do so.”

God, he wants to put a fist in her face. He wants to knock that smug, passive mask she wears to the ground, and show her that she’s not nearly as invincible as she thinks she is. The bead on his bracelet is long forgotten at this point, and it’s really a miracle he acknowledges at all that knocking an old lady flat on her ass would be a ginormously bad look in this state. “What the hell am I supposed to do then, huh? Tell me that!”

“Frankly, Edward, I don’t care what you do.” She motions as if she’s wiping away a fleck of spit from her cheek. “Find new roommates, take a second job, sell smack on the street. It doesn’t make much of a difference to me. Simply, it is an immutable fact that unless you can pay me what I am owed, however that may be, you will no longer live here.”

His mouth goes dry, his rage fizzling out as he realizes his position in this situation. A position he desperately doesn’t want to acknowledge he’s in. He… can’t not live here. He can’t. “There is no way this place is worth this much,” he tries, the growl in his voice weaker.

It’s subtle, but the lady’s like a fox hunting prey, and he can see the barest hint of a smirk quirk her cheek. “You may believe that, and take your opinion with you when I free up your residence for a new tenant who agrees with me instead.”

“I’m…” He licks his lips. “Give me a little more time, I can…”

She shakes her head. “Two months is already quite enough.”

“Then let me—”

“This is not negotiable, Edward,” she interrupts. “Either you make adjustments to your life that allow you to remain here under this new price, or you vacate my property. And I would recommend you leave my doorstep before I force you to do the latter, in any case.”

“But—”

“Good night, Edward Elric.”

“I could—”

“I said  _ good night _ .”

The wreath of twigs surrounding two painted, wooden blue birds on her door swings a little as she… not quite slams the door shut. She still manages a note of finality in it though, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Listless, he walks back across the balcony to stand next to Russell, leaning his elbows on the railing. The still-smoldering joint enters his vision, but he bats it away. He needs to think. He needs to think. Think, damn it.

They stand there silently together, the night-time chill seeping into his bones through his hoodie, chilling him from rage to craven despair. He fills the void with endless calculations on wages and time, exactly how much more he would have to make to stay, places he could potentially cut the fat in his lifestyle… but none of it amounts to what he now needs.

Russell claps him on the shoulder and leaves, ducking into his own apartment. It’s probably getting late. God, he needs to get out of his head before he spends the night out here.

He takes out his phone and dials Winry, numbly pleased when she picks up after the second ring.

“Hey, Win. Chinese sound good for dinner tonight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you are out of your mind if you think I'm going to edit a joke fic more than the bare minimum


	2. Purgatory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for verbal abuse and manipulation. tread lightly
> 
> I'm going to keep the rating at Teen until I do something that's not equivalent to stuff that happened in the og sitcom. I think if frasier can be a family show with allusions to sex, I can do that too? but oof is this heavier than I intended

“What the fuck!” Winry roars, standing up from the couch, the paper clutched in her hands. “She can’t do this!”

“She can,” Ed groans, feet kicked up on the back of the couch, one hand petting Moony and the other picking at the duct tape holding the cushion together. “I already checked. As long as she gives two months warning, she can raise it however much she likes. There’s no rent control legislation or anything out here.”  


“That’s bullshit. What are we supposed to do? Sell our organs?” 

He shrugs. “She suggested drugs. Meth’s still profitable, right?”

Winry snorts, caught off-guard. “Right, because you would make  _ such _ a believable drug lord.”

“Fuck off, you don’t know me. You don’t know my life. I could be a drug lord if I wanted to be.”

“I do know you, and I know for a fact you couldn’t. You don’t have the talent to manage your connections like that.” She sighs, sinking back into the couch and throwing back another cream cheese butterfly. “Still… This is really, really bad news.”

“I’ll say. I can’t pay child support AND this.”

“Does Zoey even know yet?”

He winces, nearly pulling out a patch of Moony’s fur. “I… uh. Was kind of hoping she wouldn’t have to know.”  Zoey isn’t the kind of person you inconvenience with news like this. If you tell her too soon, it was nothing and she never had to know, and she yells at you. If you tell her too late, she’s furious that she didn’t know sooner… and she yells at you. It’s really just better if she doesn’t ever have to know at all.

Winry shakes her head disapprovingly, and damn it, now he can’t win this way either. “If she finds out from anyone else, you know she’s going to use it as leverage against Luke coming over this summer.”

Whomp, there it is. His deepest fear, butterflied and filleted, served on a silver platter with a garnish of shame to delight his senses.

“Don’t remind me,” he groans, casting an arm over his face. “I can already hear her.  _ Oh, you got evicted? Well, Luke doesn’t need the influence of someone who can’t even keep his shit together long enough to stay in one rat-nest in his life. _ Even if I sugar-coat it, it’d be like… _ oh, you moved? Well, I’m not sending Luke to the middle of nowhere to milk cows and chase sheep. He’s a smart boy, Edward, he deserves more _ .”

“Mmmhm. As if we’re any less civilized over here than they are over there.”

“She seems to think so.” He stuffs another forkful of lo mein in his mouth and swallows it whole. “Still. I think it’s better if this blows over quicker than that.”

“Your monkey, your circus,” Winry grunts, looking over the paper again. “So what do we do?”

“I don’t know. Look for a new place?” he suggests half-heartedly, already knowing the answer.   
  
To her credit, Winry actually seems to consider it a beat longer than he did, but her expression sours the longer she stays silent. “I mean… I won’t rule it out, but I’ll be surprised if we can find anything within 50 miles. Rent’s been going up all the way into Issaquah, and Issaquah  _ is _ the edge of nowhere.”

“Yeah. We’d have to move out pretty far to get anything reasonable that lets us keep Moony, and that’ll make commuting hell.” He pets Moony thoughtfully. He’d go homeless before he got rid of her. Who else would watch hokey action flicks with him? “Well, I could probably just quit my job. Probably gonna lose it soon anyway.”

Winry’s head spins. “What?! How? Why? I listened to you today at work, and you were fine! You didn’t even blow up at that dumb lady that called in. Your anger is like… two-hundred percent more under control.”

He sucks a breath in through his teeth and turns away, a little embarrassed. “On-air, sure. You should have heard me with Rose afterward.”

The page goes limp in Winry’s hands. “God… What was it about, Ed? Is something wrong?”

“Ratings have been going down. A lot. The uh, dumb lady was actually her idea, and she didn’t tell me she was going to do it. So Iiiiii… kind of took it out on her.”

She buries her face into the paper like an ostrich buries its head in the sand. Except they don’t actually do that, that’s a huge myth, but the imagery would be remarkably the same if they did. “Did you apologize?”

“Not… yet,” he admits.

“Okay… so… you should apologize, but not gonna get into that. Let’s put that on the backburner and just assume that you’ll be able to keep your job. In that situation, what can we do?” 

“Not a whole lot. There’s not much room for me to get paid more there.” Ed reaches up and starts rubbing at the seam between his prosthetic and his natural leg. “What if I took a second job?”

She actually gapes at him. “Are you out of your mind? First of all, then you wouldn’t have ANY time to dedicate to your kid, but I don’t even think you could cover all of this! This is… This is way too much for one person!” Realization crosses her face, and she looks back at the page. “Unless I took a second job too—”

“Oooh no you don’t.” Ed sits up, much to Moony’s distaste, and snatches the paper away from her. “You have even LESS time than I do. You need to focus on your residency and actually helping people.”

Winry deflates like a bouncy castle at the end of a party, scowling at the far wall. “Well then… that just leaves roommates.”

“And drugs.”

“We’re not selling drugs yet.” She casts her gaze around the small living room, her eyebrows scrunching up. “I could move some of my stuff into storage and sleep in your room so we could offer the second bedroom… Are you okay with that?”

His breath feels like one solid lump that he has to force out of his lungs. “... Y-yeah. Just… You know the rules.” She nods, and suddenly he can’t wait to crawl out of his skin and lie under a rock. Which is dumb. It’s fine. It’s Winry. “Might wanna do a few test runs just to make sure, though.”

She lays her legs across his lap, smiling. “Why, Edward Elric, are you propositioning me?”

He keeps his eyes glued on the far wall, on the crack that runs along the wall vertically, then horizontally, with a crook in it that looks a bit like… if he’s being honest, a dick. It’s juvenile to see dicks in everything everywhere, but really, the crack looks exactly like a dick. Slowly, he traces his hand up her knee and along the soft inside of her thigh, where her skin is warm and silky. His fingers start to trace idle circles there, and she parts her knees a little bit, humming happily. Yeah… yeah, he might as well be propositioning her. Stay in my bed tonight, Winry Rockbell. I can’t possibly be  _ that _ fucked up.

His phone starts to buzz horribly in his pocket, and he sucks his teeth, ready to ignore it. But Winry pulls her legs away curiously, and any plans that don’t involve at least pulling out his phone are cancelled. He fishes his fingers into his pocket and…

Oh,  _ fuck. _

“Crap,” he whines. “I forgot Al texted earlier, gimme a minute.” Winry nods, and he swipes the big green button.

“Ed? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fiiine. Come on Al, you know me. I just got a little caught up in… something.” He glances at Winry as she bites her lip, stifling a laugh. Yeah, okay, it sounded a little suggestive. He rolls his eyes. “I had my phone on silent.”

“Oh, okay. That makes sense. Did you see my texts at all?”

Technically, yes? He at least knows about them. But… He takes the phone away from his face and pulls up his texts, and...

Alphonse Elric  
(1206836××××)

Friday, November 12th, 20××  
> Sorry about all the calls. Forgot you were on air. Call me ASAP.  
sent 6:33pm  
> No one’s dying or anything, just so you don’t freak out. It is urgent, though.  
sent 6:46pm  
> Are you able to talk yet?  
sent 10:13pm

“Well, now I have.” He winces. Figures that the one time it’s urgent, he’s totally unreachable and lost in his own bullshit. “Sorry about that, Al. What did you need?”

“Um. It’s about Dad.”

He stiffens. “No, I do not want to give the eulogy. That’s all on you.”

“Ha ha, Brother. Very funny. He’s not dead.”

“That’s a surprise…” Ed mumbles, and now Winry is crawling closer to rest her head on his shoulder. Damn it.

“He wanted me to get in contact with you for him? He’s going through some heart surgery pretty soon, and he’s going to need someone to um… look after him?” Al’s voice pitches up at the end, like he’s afraid of Ed’s answer. Which is absurd. His answer is nothing to be afraid of.

He ends the call and looks back at Winry. “So! Where were we?”

She eyes him dubiously, like he’d just suggested they feed Moony a vegan diet; something not only morally apprehensible, but calls into question his logic and knowledge of the natural world.

“... What?”

“Al calls about your dad, and you hang up on him?” She sits back, her big blue eyes scrutinizing every inch of him. And fuck, this is why he doesn’t talk about his family with her. People whose parents are dead just never understand why you don’t want yours in your life.

He tips his head back into the couch, huffing. “Because he knows not to call me about him, and Hohenheim’s not my dad?”

She actually has the nerve to look appalled at him.

“Look,” he continues, trying to cut this argument off here and now. “Just because he’s on my birth certificate doesn’t make him a father. He lost that when he never bothered to stick around long enough to see us grow up, and I do  _ not _ owe him a second chance now that it’s convenient for him to have me back in his life. I don’t care if Al likes him, or if he feeds schools in Uganda and builds children in Cambodia, or if he says trans rights, or however else we’re measuring how good of a person someone is this year. He fucked up when it comes to me, and he doesn’t get to un-fuck-it-up just because he feels really bad about it now.”

The appalled look changes to something like pity, and it’s just. So much worse. How does she do that? Make him feel guilty, even when she’s not saying anything? It’s not like he suggested killing the guy, just that he wants him to exist approximately nowhere near his whole zone!

Moony launches herself up from her spot between the couch and the coffee table, desperately trying to howl and bark at the same time well before they hear the knock at the door. She’s such a good girl, a good guard dog. “I’ll get it,” Winry assures him, shuffling off to the door, and it doesn’t hit him until a moment later that that might be a bad idea.

She swings the door open to reveal Al, phone in his hand and a beige coat hanging from his arm. He looks mildly disappointed, which in Al-language translates to “royally pissed off”. Great.

“Hanging up on me. Very classy, Brother.”

“What can I say, I’m the prettiest princess at the ball. My etiquette is unmatched.”

Winry steps to the side, allowing him in. He seems to be all business, not even putting down his coat to stalk his way over to Ed. “It’s a good thing I was already on my way over here, because I was  _ worried _ about you. Because you’re my  _ brother _ .” The implication is clear:  _ I’m worried about my family, so why aren’t you? _

God. The only thing worse than trying to explain why you don’t want your estranged bio-dad in your life to your friend who never got to know hers is trying to explain it to your brother who has totally bought into the second-chance sob story.

“I’m lucky to have a brother like you, Al. Seriously. But I do not need an ounce of Hohenheim in my life.”

“I know you don’t.” He sits down on the coffee table, gingerly moving the styrofoam box of lo mein out of the way. “But now that you can’t hang up on me… Will you hear me out?”

Ed folds his arms across his chest and scowls. “Fine. But I have no respect for a guy who won’t show up his own damn self so I can’t slam the door in his face. Sending you to do his dirty work for him is a new low.”

Al’s head finds itself into his palm, and he draws out a heavy breath. “It’s hard for him to talk to you in person when he has no way of contacting or finding you without seriously invading your privacy.”

“That’s the idea.”

Al seems to give up on that thread, deciding it isn’t worth arguing. “Dad is going through heart surgery. He’s going to need someone to take care of him, and a place to live.”

Ed shrugs. “He’s an international author. His books are translated into 27 different languages. He can afford a penthouse somewhere in Seattle, a live-in caretaker, and  _ then _ some. I don’t have the time, I don’t have the resources, and above all, I just don’t want to.”

“That’s not the point, Ed.” Al rubs his neck, sighing. “He’s lonely, and getting older. He needs to be around his family—”

“Why doesn’t he live with you then, if he’s so goddamn intent on playing house?” He bites the inside of his cheek and starts pinching at the bead on his bracelet, soothing himself by running his thumb over the imperfections.

“Because I don’t have room, Ed. We already have Mei’s parents living with us, and they require a lot of help—”

“Sounds like they’ll get along fine then.”

Maybe he deserves the glare Al throws at him. Stop it with the quips, Ed. Stop. Let Al speak his piece. “In any case, I can’t take him in. He’s willing to pay his fair share, and he can even get a nurse for himself. He just needs a room. And he’s  _ family. _ ”

Winry makes herself known to the conversation again, warily approaching from the side of the room. “You know… Ed, we were just talking about how—”

“NO.” Ed snaps, then bites his cheek harder and holds a breath in. Let it release, try again. “I mean,  _ no _ . We can make this work without him. I’m not going to rely on my washed-up piece-of-shit not-dad to pay my rent. I’m not a teenager.”

And now Al is wearing the pity face. “You know, Ed, it’s not shameful to have to cohabitate with family members.”

“I know it’s not! But that fucker wasn’t around when I  _ actually _ needed him, and I made it work then, so... fuck it, I’ll do it again!” He kicks his legs up on the coffee table, his prosthetic making a distinct  _ thunk _ that makes Al flinch. “I don’t need him. And he doesn’t need me. And if he has anything more to say about it, he can contact me his goddamn self.”

“... Should I… give him your phone number, then?” Al asks, quizzical. Hopeful.

“... Sure. Why not.” Ed allows. It’s not like much can come from just having a phone number. What’s he gonna do with it, open a grocery card savings account with it? … No, that’s too refined for Hohenheim to think of on his own. He’s old like that. Probably can’t even unlock his phone without help. “Is this conversation over yet?”

Al puts his hands up and stands, readjusting the coat on his arm. “Sure, Brother. It can be. You and Winry were clearly having a night to yourselves, and I’m sorry to have intruded. Mei expects me back soon anyway. Have a good evening?”

Oh no. He knows that tone, and his little brother is not allowed to leave his sight thinking their relationship is in jeopardy, especially not when it’s because of that bastard. Ed stands up in a rush and wraps Al up in a bone-crushing hug, digging his chin into his shoulder in an attempt to assert that Al is not  _ that _ much taller than him. “Come back when you have  _ good _ news, you goon.”

Al ends up chuckling and returning the hug, to Ed’s delight. “Yeah, sure. I’ll text you later, and we can grab coffee or something.”

“Sounds good.”

They part, and Al ends up in Winry’s arms too on his way out. “Hey Al? Can I talk with you outside for a second…?”

Ed takes the chance to grab the last of Winry’s cream cheese butterflies, and just as he’s about to pop it in his mouth… he hears a whine from beside him.

He eyes Moony, her white-frosted chin dug into the arm of the couch and her brown eyes big and sparkly, staring right at the butterfly. Fried dough and cream cheese goodness. American-Chinese food at its finest. It’s a tremendous sin to leave one uneaten, but another entirely to waste it on a dog. Even the cutest dog in the whole wide world.

He stares her down as he pops the whole thing into his mouth, and then at her heartbroken, disappointed keening, pulls the last bit back out.

“Fine. Just don’t tell Winry, okay?” he tells her as she snaps the morsel from his open palm. She delights in the crunch, her tail wagging at supersonic speeds.

She’s such a good girl.

 

* * *

 

Test run #1 results: Tired, cranky, a crook in his back, and running on 3 hours of sleep. Winry isn’t just a blanket hog, but a chronic cuddler that will chase you right off the bed if you let her. Trying to move away doesn’t work. She’s like a heat-seeking missile when she’s unconscious, and he can’t fault her for something she’s not actively trying to do, so. Tired and cranky today. Solutions to the Winry-in-his-bed problem to be determined.

He settles into his morning with a cup of coffee as thick as soup and a jog around the neighborhood, trying to flush out any residual sleepiness until at least later this afternoon, when he can nap alone.

All it really does is make him more cranky. Even with earbuds in, blasting music and scowling at the world, people feel entitled to his time. Yes, sir, could you please pause your whole shit so I can ask you how you run with one leg, as if I hadn’t just seen you run up beside me? Yes, I understand search engines exist, but my thirst for knowledge has been piqued at this very moment, and I will literally die if I do not get the answers from you, a person I have designated an expert in an entire field because you use the thing that field produces. Now tell me, what is the exact metallic compound of your leg?

(The frame is a Ti-6Al-4V that’s a little heavier on the aluminum content, and usually they start trying to bullshit their way to sounding like they had already guessed that because their sister’s aunt’s cousin has one just like it before he can even start talking about the components in his knee.)

God. He should just start asking those jerkwads everything about their phones until they get the idea. Just because he uses the damn thing doesn’t mean he built it himself, or that he wants to take time out of his day to talk about it at length with, honestly, someone he’s never going to see again.

… Alright. One exception: when someone who has prior knowledge about prosthetics is surprised by his, and instead of having to rehash the same grade-school spiel, he gets to gloat about Winry’s work.  _ That _ one was worth the time out of his day.

She’s up and making eggs by the time he gets back, and by god do they smell wonderful. It’s enough to make him forget she’s the reason he’s powering through the morning on substandard sleep, and turn his thoughts instead to fluffy golden mountains piled high with salsa and sour cream.

He sneaks up on her lazily, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her neck, taking a deep breath in.

“You’re sweeeaty,” she complains, but there’s no bite to it as she leans back into him. He chooses not to say anything, just letting himself sink into how soft she is instead as his workout playlist starts to repeat itself.

Breakfast is mostly quiet, his head too burdened with half-thoughts and replaying last night’s events to make much interesting conversation. Winry has to carry most of the conversation herself, rattling on about the price of eggs and wondering how much work urban chickens would be, the state of her residency’s politics, and any other thing that reaches her mind in a flowing cadence that almost puts him back to sleep.

Then, when their plates are clean and he feels 60% more like a person, she pops the question. “So… have you thought about what you might like in a roommate?” She puts her elbows on the table, propping her head up in her hand.

“A human would be preferable.” He leans back in his chair. “One that cooks, cleans, and is an adult.”

“Right. I think I can manage to find someone like that. Do you have any  _ restrictions? _ ”

“No beards.”

She rolls her eyes, muttering under her breath. “I’ll take it into consideration, but that might look really bad on an ad. ‘Seeking roommate— no beards allowed’ kind of sounds like a stealth trick to keep out ‘the muslims’.”

Ah. He grimaces. Hadn’t thought that one through. Good thing Winry’s around, right?

“How about I just ask you questions, and we use those answers to help guide us to post the ad?” she suggests.

Shrug. “You’ve got until my 9 o'clock call. Shoot.”

Whipping out her phone, she pulls up a word doc or a memo or something, and bites her lip in thought. “So they’ll have to contribute at least… this much in rent… First question: do they have to buy their own food?”

He pauses. He’s never minded sharing his food with Winry, but with a stranger... ? It makes him think of college all over again, where he ended up having to literally booby-trap his food to get people to stop taking his study snacks. Jacob never really forgave him for the broken fingers from the suped-up mousetrap. “Anything that can be bought in bulk and is a staple is communal. Peanut butter, bread, eggs, rice. They either stay away from the oreos or buy their own.”

“Does milk count as a staple in this situation?” she asks, grinning like a shark when he takes the bait and glares.

“They can buy their own milk and keep it in their own damn mini-fridge. I’m not touching it, I’m not seeing it, I’m not buying it.”

“Okay, okay, jeeze. So how do we split the costs on the communal stuff?”

“One weekly shop, rotating. If anyone tries to game the system we throw ‘em out. I’m not kiddie-gating jerks to make them decent roommates.” 

“Optimistic, but okay… How about cleaning habits?”

It goes on like that for a while. Winry asks a question, he answers, she writes it down without much comment. Are pets okay? Yes, but only if they’re okay with Moony. No dogs under 5 pounds, and they must be trained. Religious views? Whatever, just don’t be a bigot. Politics? If you’re red, you’re dead. He doesn’t have the patience for “fiscal republicans”, even if Winry does. And on and on and on.

“Can we really fit all of this in an ad?” He’s tired, and bored, and he keeps checking his phone as 9 rapidly approaches.

“I mean… probably? At least online. We might need to set up some coffee dates to weed out more…” She’s listing out the to-do list of netting a roommate on her fingers when his phone finally starts to ring, about four minutes early.

He grins at her, and gives a small salute as he picks up his dishes, then dumps them in the sink. It doesn’t even phase her out of looking up, as absorbed as she is in working this out. Walking over to the couch, he answers the call, ready to settle in and hear all about—

“What the  _ hell _ were you thinking, calling Luke in the middle of the night!?”

—how he’s failing as a father, will never amount to anything, and actively ruining his son’s life. All for the low-low price of all his hearing in his right ear.

“Zoey, give Luke his phone back,” he groans, and then after a moment adds, “Please.” This morning has already been far, FAR too long, and he doesn’t need to make it longer by trying to talk with his ex. Looking back over at the table, Winry’s already giving him a sympathetic grimace.

“Not until I get an explanation, and since you’re so rude and cowardly and ignore my phone calls, this is the only way I can contact you.” He bites his cheek. There’s a reason for that, and a very good one. “Now Luke is a very busy and bright young man, and I won’t have you distracting him or interrupting his sleep with errant calls about your pointless little stories and liberal education.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sits down. This is going to be a long one, he can feel it. “We agreed that I could have a phone call once a week, Zo.”

“That’s not what the parenting plan says.”

Well, no shit! “You’re right! The parenting plan says that I get to have him during the weekend. So when are you buying the plane tickets?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Edward. The parenting plan only applies so long as you live here, in Massachusetts. It’s not my problem that you ran off without thinking about Luke.” Alright, maybe that one stings a bit.

And this is why he doesn’t talk to Zoey. When she doesn’t have to hide behind looking poised in text, she’s a ruthless and cold… can’t say bitch…  _ asswelt _ . It’s a special kind of pain, when someone knows your whole history, all of your insecurities and fears that you trusted them with, and they throw it back at you to tear you down and get what they want. Even when it’s something so entirely fucking inscrutable as whatever Zoey’s getting out of this right now.

“Zoey, give Luke his phone back.” He repeats it because he can’t trust himself to say anything else now. Engaging with Zoey only feeds her, riles her up. Turns it into a fight. And a fight turns into a shouting match, and a shouting match looks bad, especially in court, and especially with his track record. Your Honor, my husband is a veteran who’s seen combat and has had to go through anger management. I’m just afraid for my safety, no trick.

Which, alright, okay. Those are huge red flags. But he’s never punched anything but pillows, walls, and one guy outside a bar that one time. Okay, three times if you count college parties. But he doesn’t get that drunk anymore, for exactly that reason.

“Not until I get an explanation,” she also repeats, stubborn and bull-headed, and it’s clear she won’t give it up until he engages.

He sighs, rubbing at his eyes, and thinks carefully about what he’s going to say next. One word out of line, one tone that’s even mildly confrontational, and she’ll run with it. “Luke called me on accident while I was at work. I was worried it was an emergency, so I called him back.”

“Well, it wasn’t an emergency.”

“I know that now.”

“It’s idiotic, besides. Why would he call you if he was in trouble, and not me, his mother?”

Because you’re a bat out of hell? A narcissistic tapeworm that consumes everyone who cares about you from the inside out? Because you can’t be trusted with anything that might put your reputation as a parent in jeopardy without making it such a major fucking production?

“I don’t know,” he lies. “I guess I was just being stupid.”

“You were.” Good, great, she’s agreeing. “Don’t do it again, or I might reconsider this summer visit thing you’re so insistent on.”

He has to physically wrench the phone away from his face and bite his tongue to keep himself from saying anything about that, grunting when he tastes blood. It must give Winry an awful shock because she’s halfway across the room in half a heartbeat, brow furrowed in alarm. “Do you need me to talk to her instead?” she whispers, holding loosely onto a dining room chair, looking unsure.

He shakes his head. Winry’s an absolute saint for suggesting it, but it would really only make things worse if he got her involved.

“Could you please give Luke his phone back now, so I can have the weekly phone call with him that we agreed on in place of his weekend visits?” he tries again, bringing the phone back to his face. But the lack of static tips him off, and looking down at his screen, he grumbles a string of curses. “Fucking hung up on me. Is having the last word really so important to her?”

Winry shrugs, sitting next to him. “Kind of reminds me of someone else I know, if I’m being honest.” His head twists to look at her, hurt. She winces. “Sorry.”

His phone starts buzzing in his hand again, an unknown number. Probably a scammer. He picks it up anyway, ready to yell at someone for a few minutes before trying to get in touch with his son again. “What the fuck do you want?”

“Oh. I was… Is this… Edward? Elric. Edward Elric?”

Had this been preceded by literally anything else, he might have thrown his phone out the window. Or just ended the call and gone on with his day. But now? He’s got a lot of anger he just had to hold in, and no reason to keep holding it in now. “Oh,  _ you, _ ” he says venomously at the voice that sounds croakier than he remembers it being, but with just the same cadence that is both matter-of-fact and bumbling. “Look, Al already told me what you wanted, so I’ll save us both the effort of you meandering your way to the point and give you my answer directly: No, no, hell no, and fuck off forever. You’re a piece of shit and I never want to see your face again, so you better hope to god I don’t see you out on the street, ‘cuz if I do, you won’t have a face anymore.”

His thumb swipes across the screen and ends the call before he has to hear any more words out of that foul, wrinkly old face. Winry exhales subtly beside him, containing her disappointment. Yeah, he gets it, she told him so. He’s just like his ex. Whatever.

“I’m gonna go scream into a pillow and then call my son,” he grumbles, lifting himself off the couch.

“Right,” Winry calls after him flatly. “Have fun.”


End file.
